


Triumph of Technology

by Mynameisdoubleg



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Adeptus Mechanicus (Warhammer 40.000), Orks (Warhammer 40.000), ROK - Freeform, Ruststalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynameisdoubleg/pseuds/Mynameisdoubleg
Summary: A ruststalker killclade launches a commando raid to kill the leaders of an ork rok.
Kudos: 3





	Triumph of Technology

“Oi, knifey git, we knowz youz in dere.”  
Ruststalker Forty-two of Killclade Fanaticus XIX-Forge World Metalica analysed the sound. High decibel, low frequency. Probability 99.8% xeno species Ork. Intent: Verbal handshake / ITT / moderate-to-low probability of distraction and/or subterfuge (Contraindicated by typical Ork engagement strategies). Distance 48.2 meters, azimuth 312 altitude -2 degrees, behind cylindrical machinery/obstacle A (Tentative Class.: thruster unit fuel conduit).  
Forty-two considered whether to respond, mentally cycled through greeting, negotiation and taunt/insult verbalization options, before deciding to remain silent and observe the developing situation.  
It was in no hurry.  
The primary objective was complete: A triumph of humanity over monstrosity, of reason over rage, of technology over barbarism (Praise Omnissiah). Together with other units of its Killclade, it had boarded the sublight repurposed assault/transportation asteroid Mtc.Trans.Inbound.090 (Ork designation: “Bludybig Rok”) and executed a kinetic operation to neutralize members of said satellite’s command cadre. This done, it had found its primary, secondary and tertiary egress routes all interdicted, and had opted for a tactical withdrawal to the aft section.  
It was currently concealed (efficacy est. 71%) between two more pieces of machinery (B and C), possibly parts of the drive unit, possibly junk. Ork technology was difficult to analyse, not least because the builders often appeared to have only the vaguest idea of what they were doing. Forty-two crouched on top of machinery D (combustion chamber?), 1.63 meters above the surrounding deck, offering a high probability of first-strike success (93%) if any crew instanced themselves within the room.  
“Why’z we talkin’ wif it?”  
Second sound source, similar to the first but located 0.8 meters away, also behind obstacle A. Forty-two tagged it ‘Ork 2,’ the other retroactively ‘Ork 1.’  
Ork 1: “Coz it shivved the mekboyz an’ if we dun get th’enginz back we’z gonna thump right inna star.”  
Forty-two’s entrance to the chamber had been resisted by instances of 090’s crew, requiring the application of its transonic blades. Most of the remains of the crew lay on the deck, creating a category C slick-surface hazard. The rest (est. 3-5%) coated other surfaces of the room, and were therefore less of a hazard in any combat scenario.  
Ork 2: “Oh.” There was silence lasting 12.4 seconds. “Izzat bad?”  
Ork 1: “We’z gunna smash inna star, Arglgah.”  
Ork 2 (‘Arglgah’): “Yeah? Ok. Sooo …”  
Ork 1: “Yeah, it’s bad.”  
Arglgah: “Right. But why all the gabbin’, Nobbie?”  
Ork 1 (‘Nobbie’): “Well, if we’z crash, it’s gunna snuff it too, innit? I’ze finkin’ we could appeal to its sense of wotchercallit, self-preservation.”  
Forty-two re-evaluated its earlier decision to avoid responding. Analysis of hostile xenos communication indicated further disruption could be achieved with minimal degradation of its own combat-readiness. It elevated the option to priority two.  
New voice (‘Ork 3’): “Oh sod it. We’z got one, two, free ... er, a lot of boyz back ‘ere. I seyz we bum-rush it an’ kill the bastid.”  
Forty-two updated its combat strategies, increasing the estimated number of hostiles to three. It paused, cross-referenced with data on Ork numbering systems, adjusted the number to minimum-10-plus.  
Nobbie: “And then wot happenz if we’z wreck th’enginz by ackserdent?”  
Ork 3: “Er…”  
Nobbie: “We smash inna star, that’s wot.”  
Ork 3: “Well, at least killin’ it might be a laff.”  
Arglgah: “I’m with Gurzbul. Lezz go!”  
Ork 3 (‘Gurzbul’): “Fanks, Argl.”  
Nobbie: “Owright, owright. Gi’it one more go, then we’z wreck it. Oi! You listening, metal pantz? You’z gorrabout ten minnits before we goes inna star and you come over all melty-like. Ger’out now and we let you go.”  
Forty-two considered. It plotted the asteroid’s last known trajectory, extrapolated its course assuming dead-stick status. Watched in its mind’s eye as that line intersected with the Metalica system’s star. Best-guess estimates verified the asteroid was slightly over 10 minutes away from point-of-no-return, after which even a maximum-thrust burn would be unable to save it from the star’s gravity (The Ork was being overly literal, of course: gravity and heat would annihilate the asteroid long before it got anywhere near the star’s corona). Predicted casualties: 100%. Own-survival probability: 0%.  
If Forty-two could have sighed in satisfaction, it would have. This exceeded even the best-case predictions of the mission outcome. It felt, insofar as it was capable of feeling anything other than melded man-machine agony, blessed. Faith in technology would always overcome the unthinking primitiveness of the xenos.  
Look what the Machine God could accomplish! Praise Omnissiah.  
“Attention, xeno combatants,” it verbalized. “I accept your proposal.”  
Nobbie: “Charge on three, two … oh? Er. You do?”  
“Please discard your weaponry as a sign of good faith.”  
Nobbie: “Um. No?”  
“Unable to comply to your request without guarantees.”  
Gurzbul: “’Ere, Nobbie, itz just stallin’.”  
Nobbie: “Cheeky git. Alright, you arsked for it!”  
Gurzbul: “’Ere we go, ‘ere we go!”  
Arglgah: “Aaaaagh!”  
A total of 16 Ork combatants appeared around the edge of machinery A, carrying an assortment of chemical slugthrower, liquid-fuel incendiary and melee weaponry. They loosed a hammering barrage of projectiles in an uncoordinated attempt at suppressing fire. Projectiles impacted against machinery B and C. Three rounds struck Forty-two’s carapace without penetrating. A fourth pierced the lower ventricle oxygen chamber, reducing internal reserves by 50%. Didn’t matter, it would have enough.  
Forty-two waited until all of them had entered the chamber, activated its transonic blades and sprang. Its titanium piston legs vaulted it over the Orks’ heads, just scraping beneath the chamber’s ceiling, to land behind the mob, beside obstacle A (fuel conduit). The Orks tried to track it, fired, perforating the ceiling with holes, twisting around to bring their weapons to bear.  
Forty-two raised its twin blades. Slashed. The Orks fired. The blades carved two long orange-red lines in the fuel conduit. Slugs tore through Forty-two’s armour, kicking it back, knocking it from its feet. Thick, viscous fuel sprayed into the chamber like a burst artery. Flames from the Orks’ incendiary weapons met the fuel in mid-air.  
The explosion was blinding, deafening. Glorious.  
Praise Omnissi—


End file.
